


Not Always Romantic - Sharing the Caring: A National Service

by steelphoenix



Series: Not Always Romantic [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelphoenix/pseuds/steelphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marines are not the most romantic of people... but sometimes, in their own way, they show that they care.</p>
<p>Ray meets Brad at the airport and meets someone unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Always Romantic - Sharing the Caring: A National Service

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a bunch of posts on the website [Not Always Romantic](http://notalwaysromantic.com). Little snippets that are completely unrelated to each other, only passingly related to source material, and largely for the lulz/cutes. Some unintentionally rather violet prose, I suspect. Snippets are named after the original post.
> 
> In this chapter: Ray meets Brad at the airport and meets someone unexpected. Brad/Ray, Stafford/Christeson

[ **Sharing the Caring: A National Service**](%E2%80%9D)

Ray hates airports. It’s just one of those things, like the way he hates slow drivers and cold tacos and sand in his buttcrack and idiotic officers (admittedly, he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore, Brad’s the unlucky bastard who has to suffer that now. He shares it with Ray extensively). The hurry-up-and-wait gets on his nerves, inevitably reminding him of waiting for jumpoff in Kuwait – possibly the longest hours of his life. If Brad hadn’t been away nine months… well.

He drums his fingers on the sign he’s readied, throwing a glance down at it and suppressing a snigger. It’s eye-blinding fluoro yellow, with _WELCOME HOME BRAD_ written in equally terrifying highlighter pink, surrounded by flowers, hearts and rainbows. He’d enlisted the assistance of his three-year-old niece Kaitlyn to assist, so it’s drowned in glitter and has blue macaroni glued on at random intervals.

A kid jogs up, panting. He frantically looks around, looks up at the Arrivals board, and breathes out a long sigh of relief. He slumps down in the seat next to Ray, breathing hard, and pulls off his maroon do-rag to wipe his forehead. He’s dressed in gangsta clothes, despite the fact that he’s whiter than a vanilla milkshake. Ray raises an eyebrow, and the kid turns to look at him, seemingly feeling his scrutiny. 

He’s got a good stare on him, and Ray’s about to make a smart remark about wiggers when he notices something. The kid has a sign too – white with simple blue marker, reading _John, I think you are really cool. Will you go to prom with me?_. 

Ray’s jaw drops for a second, disbelieving, and then he looks up at the kid, who meets his gaze with a clenched jaw and defiant eyes.

“Nah, chill it, man,” says Ray, picking up his own sign. The kid tilts his head sideways to read it, and then starts to grin. 

“Nice art,” he says, tone laced with sarcasm, “You do it all by yourself?”

Ray laughs – this kid has balls _and_ a smart-ass mouth. “I did the writing, but my three-year-old niece did the rest.” The kid grins.

There’s a crackle over the airport speakers, announcing Brad’s flight, and Ray’s heart jumps. Without thought, he’s on his feet. Men in uniform and civilians start to file out the gate, and Ray’s looking everywhere at once, looking for Brad – and there he is, head and shoulders above everyone else. He’s looking the wrong way, so Ray sticks the sign up and starts waving it madly. He knows he’s grinning like a loon, but he can’t help it, his heart beating so fast and he’s so happy that Brad is _right there_.

And then Brad sees him, and the smile that dawns on his face punches through the loneliness of the last nine months, and Brad’s walking over – those long strides – and dropping his seabag and Ray is finally warm again as Brad hugs him, tight, like he’s never going to let go, and Ray would really like that, thank you very much.

Eventually they loosen off a little, and Ray nuzzles Brad’s shoulder. “God, I missed you, you crazy Viking,” he mumbles, overwhelmed by the smell of sweat and sand and canned airplane air and _Brad_.

“Why exactly do you have a sign that looks like a unicorn shat on it?” asks Brad into Ray’s hair, bemused and a little choked up.

“Because Kaitlyn saw it on TV and wanted to make one for you,” replies Ray, not even caring that he might have damp eyes, just a little. “C’mon, let’s go home,” he adds, stepping back, gripping Brad’s fatigues and impatient to get home and strip Brad down and suck his brains out his cock. 

“Mmmyep,” says Brad, leaning down to give Ray a single kiss, and the promise that burns hot in his eyes only makes Ray more impatient. Ray crouches to pick up the hideous yellow sign, and looks up to see the kid grinning at him, sign in his hands. He freezes for a moment, and then stands.

Brad’s clearly followed Ray’s line of sight, and as Ray looks up, there’s an odd look on Brad’s face for a moment. It clears, and he grins. “Good luck, kid,” Brad nods approvingly.

The kid tilts his head, clearly not sure what to make of the giant Marine encouraging his love life. He stands, nodding, “Thank you, sir. Kinda nervous he’s gonna say no, but hey, gotta try.”

“Yeah,” Ray grins, “You gotta try.”

The kid nods, and then his gaze flicks over Brad’s shoulder and he starts to grin like crazy. “’Scuse me, gotta go. Thank you for your service, sir.” He quickly shakes Brad and Ray’s hands, and then darts off, lifting his sign.

“Cute,” grins Ray, and then cuts a look up to Brad. “But how come they never call me sir?”

“Because you’re not in the Marines any more, Ray,” Brad replies, affectionate rather than snarky. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

-

“Hey, Ray!” comes a yell from the lounge.

“Yes, your Royal Princessness?” Ray hollers back. “Do you want more juice? Because fucked if I’m getting it for you, even if you have a fuckin’ broken foot. Which was your own stupid fault.” He heads out to the lounge, though, because despite Brad being a horrible patient, he loves him and doesn’t mind catering to his whims occasionally.

Brad waves the paper at him, folded over to a particular section. He’s grinning in that slightly-devious way that makes Ray suspicious, but as Ray scans the section – Births, Deaths and Marriages – he sees the photo that Brad’s wanting him to look at. Two men in dress blues under a sword arch.

_Sgt. Evan Stafford and Cpl. John Christeson married at Oceanside Rose Gardens…_

“Huh. Guess the sign worked,” says Ray, and laughs.


End file.
